Kyoto No More: Anthology
by an-earl
Summary: 'Once, they'd have told you, Kyoto was beautiful. And then War came.' 'A set of footprints pressed on into the distance: one long line of unbroken steps—unbroken resolve.' Oneshot fic series ranging from the Bakumatsu-era, to Kenshin's 11 year tenure as a wanderer. Multi-chapter collection planned. Some movie-verse tie-ins.(Beware blood and gore in some chapters.)
1. Kyoto No More

Disclaimer: I am not in any way affiliated with Nobuhiro Watsuki or RK's publishers and studios. This is simply my fanwork, thanks.

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 **Chapter 1: Prologue.**

 **Kyoto No More**

Once, they'd have told you, Kyoto was beautiful.

They'd have boasted of the row by rows of cherry blossoms blotting out the heavens in the hue of rosy cheeks, and the wind, painted with petals. Come summer, their scent continued to bless passerbys' from porcelain jars of perfume stalls, unfurling onto the streets.

The roads bustled with the continuous click-clack of wooden-scandaled merchants, heaving along carts and barrows of the morning's produce. They were unforgivingly overflowing with piles of fresh-cut greens, slugs still crawling; and exotic fruits bartered from every corner of the country. Down the most winding of paths, the fruits bruised in their rickety holdings, and the tops of the piles came crashing down- juices squelching on the floor. Here, the children laid in wait, a cluster of them robbing the fruits from behind and running away shrieking.

On another side, where the white paths were stone-paved, women graced the grounds in their best dress and high-heeled sandals. They travelled in trios, chuckling to themselves over the latest gossip; the sound of their voices jingling like bells in the air. Their kimonos were adorned with the colour of deep blues and sunset-reds. Flowers scattered over them, gathering near the length of the robes and long sleeves, flitting about.

Others were drawn to the spilling smell of deep-fried dumplings and sweet buns; long queues were draped in the billowing steam from makeshift, outdoor kitchens. Restaurants brimmed with chatter and grumbles as the chefs struggled to mass-supply takko-yakkis'.

The same old man stood elevated on a small wooden stool, waving haughtily around an array of hand-crafted fans attached to a string, and a painted doll in the other. Nearby, the sound of a whistle shrieked in the air as policeman, dressed in their proud gi, swords fixed smartly at their sides, broke up crowds that had gathered too large around the young and aspiring acrobat. Money clinked at his feet as they dispersed.

Fathers had hands full of half-eaten dangos and toy-drums as they mingled through the sea of people after their wives and children. From the square, the old and rich could be seen sipping sake of divinity, sheltered from the summertime sun.

Elsewhere, horse-drawn carriages disappeared behind the golden gates of the Kyoto estates, heading into the high-rising towers with their roofs strewn with lanterns- lighting up the night.

It was the sort of Kyoto a burly man with an overbearing coat- red rimmed and high-collared- would amble about, eyes carefully tracking a pony-tailed red head bobbing about somewhere in front. Man and boy were on a quest for sake. And maybe dango if the little baka-deshi behaved.

Once, Kyoto was beautiful.

And then War came.

The sudden trigger of a firearm plagued the outskirts, and where smoke rose above, the people fled. The spark of gunshots fired from long barrelled muskets lit up window frames at night. They blinked like fireflies before fading out, marking where death would come by. Odd fires spasmed alight, and sometimes singed bodies were pulled out- discovered with ropes bound to what was left of the arms and legs.

The nights became darker, and colder, and even in the absence of a night's rain, puddles still adorned the pretty-paved grounds in the morning. The downpour seemed to coat the walls in striking blotches, staining. Drag marks were customary around them. Grass grew green over bullet shells.

Morning, noon and night, and those desperate enough out after dark, were ravaged by petty thieves and beggars. And as time went on, they were one and the same.

The young recruits of self-proclaimed liberators picketed the ones siding with the shogun, many with no home to return to, nobody to go home to. Back rooms of restaurants held dives for the Ishin Shishi, out saving the country by killing its people. Revolutionaries started out by slipping messages into the coat sleeves of comrades passing by, not yet burdened with the knowledge of their association in planting gravestones.

Street performers, the 2-string musicians and the man on the wooden stool, were replaced by patrolling officers, sides armed with katanas no longer worn with pride- but warning.

Crowds didn't clap and cheer at performers, but rioted around men stripped bare- whip licking at their backs, top knots hacked off form their heads.

Women and girls stood barefoot on the streets, flowery kimonos slipped down a couple inches too low, flaunting, pleading, in wind or rain. Children too young to understand, were ushered onto the backs horse drawn carts. The promise of a single meal kept them silent.

The smell of sakura-scented perfumes were long gone- and instead, the haunting stench of severed flesh- weeks long decomposed- unfurled upon the streets in throngs. They were lined uniformly, the enemies of the state, each carefully fashioned on pikes staring with grey eyes or red eyes, or no eyes. Their blood dry and flaking, their pikes etched with claw marks, and their receding cheeks infested with maggots, burrowing.

The peasants, pillaged of their produce, didn't dare show their faces. The fear of all they had being seized, was all too real. The people starved. Merchant-turned bandits abandoned the city to raid the countryside with unsheathing machetes- and the odd, lucky one with a pistol by european make.

Kyoto had fallen.

At night, the city was manic, and the Shinsengumi maniacal- their game of cat and mouse with the Shishi yielded death tolls, higher year, by year, by year. The Wolves of Mibu greeted the brave, or stupid, or idealistic, or all- welcome to the city of the dead and dying. Kyoto, the city of the grotesque and diseased.

And one fine morning, the red-headed boy returns, alone, half a man, cursing at himself for letting the world go to the dogs.

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Thank you for your time, I hope you enjoyed.

This is a rather dramatised version of what I thought Kyoto was like during the bakumatsu.

ok, so I quickly just did some googling, the part about the fires is mostly correct (outside the Kenshin story) . See the Great Genji fire, 1864. There is a list on wikipedia of Kyoto fires- everything was made of wood. There most definitely are cherry blossoms in Kyoto. There are quite a few unpleasant references in the second half, such as the selling women and children, and prostitution- which was basically an industry no matter the war. Guns, like some types of rifle, were most definitely used in the 19 century. There were plenty of skirmishes between samurai in the city- there was intense political instability.

ok here, from insidekyoto **dot** com : 'In the mid 19th century though, Japan was wracked by political instability. Kyoto, the imperial capital, was a hotbed of conspiracy and intrigue. Ambushes, assassinations and outright battles frequently erupted on the streets.' That said, I suppose I portrayed the intensification of civil war in Kyoto, making it seem kinda like an over-night change when it was more prevalent. Please let me know any other period knowledge relevant :D

Um, the rest of the series is not strictly about Kyoto, hehe, it centres around Kenshin.

Anyhow, I hope the fic is enjoyable, thank you so so much! I would absolutely adore a review!

-earl


	2. Alone, finally

Disclaimer: No chapter of this collection is affiliated with Nobuhiro Watsuki or the Kenshin franchise. I hope the fanwork is enjoyable~

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Hello readers,

You may want to treat the first chapter of Kyoto No More as a sort of prologue if it suits. This one-shot series will go chronologically in order of RK universe's timeline. I didn't write it in chronological order though, so please excuse the slight irregularities. (I didn't realise all the Hiko ones would pile up at the beginning. Hehe, oh well!) Please enjoy!

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 **Chapter 2.**

 **Alone, finally.**

The booming voice screamed himself hoarse. He ran into the snow, long coat trailing behind him. Throat dry. A set of footprints pressed on into the distance: one long line of unbroken steps—unbroken resolve. The skies were weary now, and light was fading.

 _'He's gone. He's… he's really gone.'_

The burly man slumped into his shoes, weighing himself down. _What have I done?_ He'd given his baka-deshi over to the wolves. After a long moment, he stepped back inside his shack, sitting in silence. Unable to sleep for days. Knowing that in all the sounds of swords clashing, of gunfire and cannons blowing, they'd be one more soldier amongst the great turmoil, one more cry in the war. One that would haunt his dreams for years to come. He'd never sleep well again.

 _The baka-deshi was gone._ His Kenshin was gone. And he resorted to his sake, withdrawing from the world again; abandoning everything _wretched_ that had corrupted his little, sunlit boy. And as the rim of the sake dish touched his lips, he recoiled, spasming backward. The taste of blood had returned. And it would never leave again.

It would be a decade before his sake tasted good again.

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Baka-deshi: Idiot apprentice/ disciple

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Writer's Notes

I'm sure you've figured out this is Hiko's reaction to Kenshin's departure for war. It must have been hard for him to go back to his quiet, loner life after Kenshin. :/

-earl


	3. Taunt him

**Chapter 3**

 **Taunt him.**

A maddening silence fell over Kyoto. Streets once filled with the hustle and bustle of people, every twist and turn stuffed with stalls and performers and children, were striped bare, merely a ghostly reminder of the day. Now completely deserted, the winding paths stretched on into oblivion, seemingly more narrow and claustrophobic than it ever was before. Silence permeated on, lingering undisturbed through the empty streets—an eerie soundlessness. Enough to drive man into madness.

A half-moon barely escapes confinement behind black clouds, illuminating the skeletal streets. Uncannily bright against the absence of a single lit flame. Elongated shadows projected grotesque figures against fences and buildings; growing slowly, gluttonously, as if it were consuming what lay in its path. Laying Kyoto to waste.

It was times like this, in the utter dead of night, would some living soul feel the sudden rushing current of a shadow flit past, but hear next to nothing. Or see the mirror-like surface of a puddle break, ridden with ripples, still without the slightest of noise, all in an instant. But as the pathways became marred with blotchy, pigmented smudges, so telling of something being splattered over it; and people, officials, vanished into thin air, the watchful nights collapsed. Come sundown, there was no law. Come nightfall, not a single soul could be found outside the barricaded domains of closed doors, bolted windows and curtains drawn to a close. _Don't taunt the shadows, and they won't come to you._

This was Kyoto.

A coarse, metallic scraping of metal sounded upon the rooftops, drawn out slowly to reverberate though the air. It was a sound in which no soul in the era of Bakumatsu would not come to know. And dared break the silence. The blade of a katana had been unsheathed, one side sharpened to perfection, glinting brightly—as if in mockery of the moon. A man sat alone atop the brickwork, hunched over the weapon, and streaking a cloth over what was yet to be tainted. Habitual polishing had become ritual, and the man would repeat it over and over, cleaning soon-to-be impurities even if only to pass the time.

He sat in wait, careful to keep his stoic demeanour shrouded in darkness. He was calm, but alert, fully aware of every passing second, and absolutely on guard.

Sheathing away the katana at his side, the man almost seemed to stop ticking altogether—achieving a stillness that no human could possibly be capable of. _Don't taunt the shadows and they won't come to you._ In Kyoto, the shadows were where demons prowled, where wolves hunted. And his name was renowned. A shadow out for blood.

Suddenly, emerging form the streets, was the flickering of an oil lamp, its yellow light oscillating and irresolute. In its circular radius, stood the men who dared light a flame. Four bodyguards surrounded a middle-aged man in flamboyant dress. The hitokiri could tell at a glance, simply by the way he took his strides, that he was the official. But tonight, he was nothing more to him than a target. He had been given his name, but there was no point in remembering it. After tonight, all he would be was a dead corpse. As soon as he stepped into the hitokiri's sight, he was, just another dead corpse.

The hitokiri squinted, his eyes adjusting, unaccustomed yet to the pool of light below. Inhumanly still, he lay on the rooftop, his left hand drifting unconsciously to the sheath in his belt. The four men below were armed, each clutching their katana until their knuckles became white. Clutching on for dear life. He could almost smell their fear. Their incompetence. Their _sacrifice_. Don't taunt the shadows and they wont come to you. They had chosen their allegiances, they had sided with the shogunate—and that was enough for the hitokiri. Tonight, there won't be just one corpse in the streets of Kyoto.

His heart was beating now, faster and faster as he shallowed his breath. The men were drawing nearer. The hitokiri daintily clasped his hand over the hilt of the katana, finding his mark. His muscles tensed around the fabric-like texture, and he was lost in his trance. Every breath was a last count-down. Every footstep closer sounded in his ears. He could feel his own blood pulsating though his veins. "For the Ishin Shishi" he muttered. "For tenchuu." Light bloomed onto his face from below. "For the new era."

He charged.

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 **Glossary**

Shogunate: The existing feudal regime that the Ishin Shishi fought against

Ishin Shishi: The imperialists, pro-emperor, revolutionaries, the side that Kenshin fought on.

Hitokiri: An assassin

Tenchuu: 'Heaven's judgement'- phrase used by the Ishin Shishi hitokiri to kill- at least in the manga

* * *

 **Notes**

Yay! Another story!

This is Kenshin- Hitokiri Battousai- at the height of his reign in revolutionary Kyoto! It's one of the hundred murders he did in his early year/s under Katsura, according to the Trust and Betrayal OVA. So he hasn't got any intense doubts about his job yet and is totally convicted. Theres no scar on his face yet. He's like, 14/15 here ._.

The top kinda overlapped a bit with the first chapter...oh well.

More to come :)

-earl


	4. Man and Boy, Meet again

Chapter 4

 **Man and boy, meet again.**

The streets of Kyoto were orderly. Kept neat. Dimly lit, but well frequented. A festival burlesquing in a time like this. _Incredulous,_ he thought. And people drank, and music played— like Kyoto was drunk under the pretence, that war wasn't raging. The man in the long coat ambled though the lightly lit streets, holding onto the red hems of his coat. _Damn_. As if being 3 heads taller than most people would help, the mantle of the Hiten Mitsurugi was certainly doing him no favour. He pushed forward, carrying himself with a grace unexpected for a bulky man.

A katana was tucked under the cloak. His gait was sauntering. His eyes fixed forward, disinterested. Around him, a dozen hostile ki's flared in his direction. _Since when did a simple sake-run become so bothersome?_ Hiko Seijuro sighed, blowing the bangs out of his face.

The city was overrun by spies and conspirators. He was big and noticeable: parting crowds with his long strides. This was _kami-damned_ Kyoto. Someone was bound to jump him, for one thing or another. _Like I want to hear another bout of propaganda from an army conscriptor—or another one of those delirious revolutionaries._

 _How troublesome._ He ducked into a liquor store, bought the most expensive sake available, and sat down at a table with a cup of tea. He didn't want to drink now. He couldn't enjoy it here. Kyoto tasted like blood, whatever he tried.

The bulky man scoffed, sinking into his seat in the corner, and didn't movie again until the lights blinked out. When Kyoto stopped masquerading under the lanterns _._ And the wolves were set free. The demons released. Hiko stepped out onto the streets once more, and it was a different world. Still and silent. Like the dead. Deserted.

* * *

The lights lit up his eyes, and Hitokiri Battousai stood mesmerised by the _people._ Tonight, the war was on stalemate, and the people milled around him, close enough to brush past his clothes and tangle his hair. No one glancing back twice, flinching away like he was the plague.

Here, he could wear the face of a human. Play a civilian. A child, lost in the crowd.

But this was Kyoto, and no children pranced around here, festival or not. But under the guise of the bright moonlight, the smell of food filling his senses, he let himself forget, wafting around the crowd like any other. But a man strolled toward him from the distance, eyes seeking him out, an intensity siphoning out of his ki. Battousai darkened, making the colour of amber seep into his eyes; grimacing inside to keep his face impassive.

For any well-trained eye…or not… this spy was so _very-goddamned-obviously_ a spy. Walking in a straight line with murder in his eyes.

 _Well, that's quaint._

 _You will not need to murder once in your life, should the Shishi choose you wisely. I have that pleasure, Sir. My burden to bear._

And he passed him without a word, hearing paper scrunch into his sleeve. Stopping at a small crowd off the path, he tossed a coin to a street busker: letting the strums of their 17-stringed-koto simmer over his thoughts. The music was cheery, and the wind carried it over their heads. He was wrong. The war did not wait. The war did not still. He was needed again tonight. And he stood with the music droning into the background of chatter and laughter, waiting for the lights to go out, and the killers to come out.

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If the ki flares from before really wanted to die tonight, should he really have to draw his sword, then no one else had to _feel their blood._ No one needed to know. He wouldn't addd to their nightmares. He'd make it clean. Quick. And for a stocky man his size, Hiko slunk into the shadows with a certain ease, pace picking up.

He had entered the outskirts, when a flurry of ki's emerged into his senses. He faltered, edging behind of wall. There was no point in making a commotion— it was wiser to just let them pass. And the escorts marched forward in one, large body, proudly, gloriously; _like a kami-damned parade._ And with a blink of an eye, Hiko Seijuro was watching _blood_ spill.

It caught even him off guard: a flurry of raised voices, the clash of sword against sword, and glints of metal—strikes flashing like lightning striking. The men encircling the rich man were falling without the knowledge of ever being hit. Dead. But Hiko's eyes were darting about, drinking in the movement of the Hitokiri's fight. _Fight. That was a merciful word. This, is a massacre._

He traced his strokes, picking out the dead men before they died. Watching the slaughter play out, Hiko was repelled by the Hitokiri's cruelty; and yet, he found himself darkly admiring his art. And there was something hugely unsettling about the way he moved— the way he spun on his toes and impaled men with an ease. The way he ripped apart flesh and took off their limbs. Adjusting his step ever so slightly, as if leaving room for the corpses to fall. Treading on still-warm bodies, so as to not slip on their blood.

Fighting, as if breathing.

As the sword fell more deadly, the strokes became familiar, familiar; even the way blood spattered, was like remembering a memory. The Hitokiri fought, like Hiko Seijuro.

His blood ran still in their veins as the realisation came over him like a sickness.

In the Hitokiri's ki, there was a stranger. It was cold, unforgiving, unyielding. Not really like the living. Soulless. Hollow. He held onto some last flicker of hope, that he was wrong. But he was right about too many things he wished, were not. A sliver of moonlight beamed by, passing quickly back into darkness. But when he closed his eyes, that tinge of red hair was all he could see.

 _My baka-deshi is dead. The dogs had finished picking off his bones._ And Hiko Seijuro stood, concealed, watching his boy drop the mark of the Shishi amongst the dead. Seeing him chisel away at his soul. _Baka-deshi…why did I feed you to the wolves? Look at what you've done to yourself. Kenshin…Hitokiri. Battousai._

* * *

He finished wiping his blade, wiping his hands, his face. He scrunched up, revolted, and spat on the roadside. Was there blood in his mouth? Maybe. Probably. He couldn't tell.

It was random, miraculous even, but for a moment, he twisted around, eyes blaring into the dark. For a fleeting moment, he thought he had sensed _him._ There was nothing in the gloom. The rasps of the downed had stopped, and he was alone.

The hitokiri's eyes drooped, disappointed, but at the same time, he was _relieved._ He would never see his master again. He would hope that he'd never see him again. Battousai smiled weakly. In his Shishou's eyes, he could still be that little, green boy who played spinning top and cried at a grazed knee. Mourning for the passing of a butterfly. Untainted. Still human. To him, he could still be _Himura Kenshin._ And he'd give anything to keep his Shishou from seeing the monster he'd become.

 _You were right, Shishou. You were always—right._

* * *

In the dead of the night, two figures walked alone, drawing further and further away from one another, into the opposite direction.

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Glossary

17-stringed-koto: The Koto is a traditional instrument with 17 strings. Check it out here- www **dot** youtube **dot** com/watch?v=pxS7J3jswPk

ki: Um, this is like, a person's aura or energy.

kami: God. So, phrases like 'Kami-damned' was used :3

 _no one else had to feel their blood-_ I wanted to explain this phrase, its talking about how Hiko didn't want to involve civilians or fight near them. If he did, innocents would feel blood spatter from him fighting ._.

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 **Notes**

Mr. Spy, get your stuff together, man.

Ok, I realise that "Anthology" actually refers to a series of stories about the same subject, written by different authors. So what I'm writing is really a "collection," by the same author. Forgive me for not changing this- 'anthology' just sounds so much cooler :3

Yay, another chapter! Hope you like it. **Ok, this is kinda important,** I highly recommend that you read another one of my mid-length oneshots, 'The Morose' here as a sort of a 'Chapter 4.5.' I'm sorry to have to make you go searching for it, its under my name, but I just didn't want to post the same story twice thats not good. Its not compulsory of course XD, but it accounts Kenshin's last assassination job and it makes perfect sense for it to be read between chapters 4 and 5. Check it out before the next chapter if you wish. 'The Morose' is the most action-packed piece I've written so far.

Thanks for reading!

 _I would love nothing more than a review._

Now off to the next chapter!

-earl


	5. Curtain Call

Chapter 5

 **Curtain call.**

 _Toba Fushimi, 1868_

He stared down. The silver visage of his katana stood upright, wedged into the frozen ground out of reach. From the hilt to the tip, blood ran its length. He stood there, stagnant, poised between relief and disbelief; the sheer magnitude of what he had done, yet to register in his mind.

 _'_ _The war is over.'_

He stared down, his vision blurring in, and out, and in, and out of focus. Catching only glimpses of red trickling down his blade. Red running into the snow. Red on his clothes. Red on his hands. Under his fingernails. On his face. In his mouth. The air he breathed.

 _'_ _The war is over.'_ He exhaled, watching his breath frost in the air and dance away. Reminding him he was still alive. Half a man. _Almost human._ He stared down, eyes wandering over the dirtied snow. Wooden wagons were upturned against trees, charred, and artillery parts were spilled over the grounds; the bullet shells frozen in place. A number of katanas were strewn across the snow, some broken, chipped, bloodied, an arm or so still attached.

All around him, lay the bodies of his enemies. Armour pierced. Heads' missing. Organs spilled. The heat from their blood still evaporating. Like breath. He skimmed them over, eyes dazed, counting his sins. For every man that lay at his feet, a dozen more would mourn, a dozen more would dress in white. A thousand more to hate his name. A country, to fear his shadow. But he slinked away, wincing at the crunch of his footsteps, careful as if not to wake the dead. Too many of them would return in his sleep.

 _'_ _The war is over.'_

And he looked to the skies suddenly, the dawn of a new era beckoning him. For better or worse. He had condemned himself to hell, but it promised him heaven. Not far, a line of smoke billowed above. Some way away, fire crackled. The faint smell of burning flesh distinguishable.

And he looked away, leaving his sword to rust in the snow.

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Glossary

Toba Fushimi: The last, decisive battle that saw the Ishin Shishi, Kenshin's side, as victorious in the war. This fic really fits the Movie-verse- the first 3 mins of the first Rurouni Kenshin movie depicts this battle :)

'Dress in white' : I wanted to explain this- In western cultures, the funeral colour is black. In eastern cultures, such as the Japanese and Chinese, the colour white is worn in funerals. Interesting how its the reverse- western weddings are themed white.

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Notes

 _guys you never have to read the notes if you don't like to_

'faint smell of burning flesh.' Ok I don't want to give spoilers or anything... but... can you... think of...anything- _anyone_ else who burned in the bakumatsu? Really bad? Yeaaaahh, Kenshin's smelling that.

The original planned ending was going to be this: _'And he looked away, leaving his sword to rust in the snow._ _By midday, it was gone.'_ Which is actually alluding to the live action movie-verse (Movie 1)- **spoilers** \- its talking about Ji'ne taking Battousai's sword. I wish they could have made it clearer in their end battle, that Ji'ne was using kenshin- battousai's- old sword, like how rad and angsty would that be? Since I just straight up said that- these guys were basically all in the same final battle, and Kenshin is kinda near shishio who is currently being burnt alive. ah. Anyway, I cut out that very last line because I didn't want to end it by setting up Ji'ne, I wanted to put the weight on Kenshin leaving his life of being a killer.

Yup! Please please please drop a review if you're liking any of this so far! I would love love to hear your thoughts :D Even one or two words would be fantabulous! Next chapter soon.

-earl


	6. The lost and never found

**Chapter 6**

 **The lost and never found.**

The end days were coming. He could see it in the people passing—exasperated, hopeful. He heard it form the stragglers, flocking back, uproarious. He felt it within his bones, heavy, and ominous. The taste of his sake bore heavy with blood. And he drank himself senseless. Night by night, he sat up alone, companion to the dark; watching Kyoto light up with fire. And souls flock up to heaven in their throngs. The grounds heaving, dragging more to hell.

Beyond, the walls of the city rang loud with the sounds of seppuku. And amongst the continuous clash of metal, the burst of firepower, the sound of falling men, he hastened a drink in his hand; holding it long enough for a smile to creep his lips. The end days were here. The war was burning out, finally. Incredulously.

 _And now, what has become of my baka-deshi?_ But every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was that little, broken boy, looking up to him like he was the sun. Innocent, even though blood stained his cheek. Now his hands too, must be drenched, as _his_ was before. _Dripping crimson._ He would always be as if he had just walked out of a rainstorm. And the ageing man drank himself until he too, was knee deep in blood again.

 _Are you done? Baka deshi?_

The days grew longer, and brighter—quieter, and stiller, and one breathless day, it ended. The war was won. By the Shishi, he later confirmed. And in the days following, there were bell sounds and bugle-shrieks and laughing, crying, rejoice. Momentous, and fleeting, celebration.

And through and through the upheaval, he waited. Sitting in that same old sunny spot, sake jug never a few centimetres away. Long cloak billowing in the warm wind, hair tousled in a low pony-tail. He waited, unyielding, unrelenting. The weariness in his lines were mismatched with eyes up-lit with hope. His mind raced with anticipation, saddened by what _would be,_ but not ready to give up what _was._

 _Baka deshi, come home now._ He chanted.

 _You've done enough, come home._ He prayed.

 _"_ _Please."_

And he waited

And waited.

waited.

The sun set in his eyes.

He never came home.

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Glossary

Seppuku: a ritual suicide performed by someone who must wipe away shame by killing themselves.

baka/deshi: Idiot apprentice/disciple

'saddened by what would be but not ready to give up what once was.'- simple explanation- Hiko knows the war has changed Kenshin for the worse, but he still wants to believe, as illogical as it is, that he's OK, and that the war hasn't corrupted him.

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Notes

Its an unspoken truth but Hiko and Kenshin are father and son as much as they are Shishou and deshi. I imagine Hiko waited with every hope in 1868 that his boy would come back after the war. He didn't. Not for 11 years, at least. What a bastard.

Sorry if some of my writing techniques/ phrases are repetitive...I know I totally overuse the imagery of blood, but its just so symboliiiiic...

A review would absolutely, unquestionably, make my day! Tune in next time!

-earl


	7. One more ghost

Should do a **Disclaimer** again: No chapter of the Kyoto No More Anthology is affiliated with Nobuhiro Watsuki or the Rurouni Kenshin franchise. Please, this is merely fanwork. *sighh* I got into this fandom too late...

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

 **One more ghost.**

He ambled out, the air crisp between his breaths. Hiko Seijuro sauntered along a weedy path, flattening the grass as he went. The early morning was still; the first of the sun's rays yet to grace the earth. There was a peace here, a silence that he marvelled at. Making him almost forget the war raging beyond the horizon. Making it easier to forget one more soul screaming in the upheaval.

So he hurried on, sake jug filled to the brim at his side. The thicket of wood before him hardly thinned out before the clearing, and the field of graves bloomed into view as abruptly as a candle going out. Amongst the dust, arrays of weeds had wedged themselves between the stone markers, and moss eroded them from the top. A light layer of undergrowth covered the three largest stones, lined up neatly a way away from the others. Hiko Seijuro edged forward, careful not to step where the dead rested. The men he murdered. And he approached the stones tentatively, with a certain nervousness, wondering how best to spare the dead their feelings.

Hiko sighed, and bobbed down to pluck the weeds off the graves. And then he clapped his hands together, shutting his eyes and mumbling aloud. "Miss Akane, Miss Kasumi, and Miss Sakura. You may recall I am Hiko Seijuro the XIII…Kenshin…or Shinta's master."

He paused, tasting the words in his mouth before he spit them out. With a smile, he added, "Kenshin has become quite a swordsman. Intuitive, resourceful, calculating and courageous. Though he's also stupid, idealistic… stubbornly naiive and, and…" He looked up, weary before the three stones. "and he's stronger, and more talented than anything. He's grown into an admirable boy."

He paused again, making sure he looked the ghosts in their eyes. "Forgive me. Forgive my idiocy. I let the baka go. The baka-deshi's gone to fight in the war. The Bakumatsu. He'd grown too righteous, too convicted. He'd never have listened to me. So I told him to go. Heh. And spite me or not— he's gone." His palms were sweaty now, and he lowered his knees into the dirt. "I'm sorry. But I taught him, raised him the best I could. _Kami,_ let it be enough. Please, watch over him. He's too…good, for his own good." Hiko hesitated a little, before bobbing up. One hand curled under his long, white coat, and he produced the jug of sake.

"Miss Akane, Miss Kasumi, and Miss Sakura." He hoped they had reached Nirvana. The jug of sake dampened the undergrowth. "…Just know. He'd be back. He will. He'll survive the war, no matter what condition he's in. He'll come to see you here, one day." Hiko smiled sadly. And he overstepped the field of graves as the sun fell on the three stones.

* * *

Years passed.

He came sauntering back up the weedy path, its greenery now overgrown. The morning was new, and the embers of the horizon lit up the skies with a fire. _Beautiful._ Hiko was momentarily blinded by the light, eyes reflecting the brilliance of the dawn. And as ready as he was to meet the abruptness of the clearing, his face lit up with surprise. Against the red sky, thirty crosses loomed out. A scrawl of crooked shadows were cast across the barren grounds. _Who?_ But he knew who. The boy who dug graves became a man who bought death. _He came back._ Hiko walked between the marked mounds, eyes falling on the three lined-up stones. Now, they were accompanied by three crosses.

The cross in the centre was adorned with a lavender scarf, and he caught the faint scent of _white plum._ It hung there, almost enveloped by the bloody sky. _This belonged to a lady. She was important to you, Kenshin._ His thoughts soured. _But now she's_ one more _death to pay tribute to._ A light wind tousled his bangs, and he stared down for a long time, looking at nothing and nowhere. Hiko shut his eyes.

 _The baka-deshi finally understands. How much of a baka he really is._

The wind made dust settle on his feet.

 _He returned to see you, Miss Akane, Miss Kasumi, Miss Sakura, didn't I say? I'm right. Heh. Why do I always have to be right?_ He'd warned Kenshin, and now he was back from the war—changed into the exact thing his master tried so hard to protect him from. Hiko arched his neck, looking to the skies to watch the heavens burn.

 _'_ _Tell me your name.'_

 _'_ _Shinta.'_

 _'_ _A child's name; too soft for a swordsman. From this day forth, you are Kenshin.'_

* * *

Notes

Alternate/ deleted line: 'He'd warned Kenshin, and now he came back from the war no longer able to play soldier with a wooden sword, dreaming of saving the _world.'_

Alternate/working titles: 'Morning Stroll of regrets' and 'The lavender scarf'

The last part of this one was ripped straight out of last heart-breaking 2 mins of the Trust and Betrayal OVA. You can see it here: www **dot** youtube **dot** com/watch?v=VjjloyaOxEc (starts at 4:55 mark.)

:_: Ah, I love writing pain. Hiko loved Kenshin a lot, Ok. I'm going to write a piece about how exactly he found out about Tomoe. Soon-ish. (But I'll publish it as a separate one shot...)

* * *

 **Update:** Oki, the full story is up- it's called 'Rain, rain, go away; Battousai is back again.'

* * *

Reviews are greatly appreciated, I would love to hear your thoughts about anything!

-earl


	8. The Show

**Chapter 8**

 **The Show.**

Enclosed within the crowd, shuffling, squeezing, uproarious, he was still. Watching the world move around him, a mass of men. Their voices alit with a dangerous kind of passion, an edge of anger laced in their ki. Anger for the wrong reasons, or for the right. Except nobody knew which was what. They shuffled, shoving intently into the crowd, calling to make themselves heard over everyone else, the hundreds of them—screaming. And amid the rolling sea of people, he was still. His amber eyes dimmed under a scruffy straw hat: red hair barely recognisable. Struggling to stay afloat. His left cheek, asymmetrical to his right, was botched with a bandage pasted over. A wanderer no one would see in a crowd like this. Here, he was invisible.

And he was pushed back suddenly, so he pushed forward, not joining in the commotion but caught up in its momentum. And the men in the centre bloomed into view. His insides became still. The one in the middle, adorned in an armoured long coat, black hair framing his face, stood proudly, sternly. _Afraid_ , but not not _scared._ Angry, but not regretful. He was young and fierce. He stood proudly next to the banner: _Enemy of the state._

The wanderer stood, unmoving, watching the guardsman grip his hair and haul him to his knees. And the screaming became shrill, deafening him momentarily, forcing him to stand his ground as the crowd writhed around him. Another swordsman stepped forward, taking his time to unsheathe his katana. Letting the sound of metal ring above the crowd.

" _Last words? Traitor_."

The Captain looked up, and all of a sudden, out of the hundreds of milling people, he sought out a tinge of red hair. Amber eyes. The wanderer looked at him, unfazed. The Captain smiled back.

" _The Seikihoutai… are not at fault._ "

The moment flit by, and he turned away. The wanderer stared on, seeing the Captain's eyes fall on another, softening.

" _Know this—and_ ** _live._** "

The executioner walked forward purposefully, both hands clutching the katana; bringing it over his head. And the wanderer didn't blink, as the blade came down, and the Captain was in two. From the deafening disarray of voices bloomed one other, more grievous, and in _mourning_ than the rest. He stiffened, picking the high voice out. Hearing the world's end for one, small boy, somewhere. He didn't see him. And he died away with the crowd.

* * *

Notes

The alternate titles for this are: 'A quiet man in a noisy crowd.' and the translation of Seikihoutai-'The Red Vanguard'

The Seikihoutai is an army made up of peasants and civilians, who aided the Ishin Shishi when they came into power. The story is, that the Shishi promised to lower taxes to gain the support of the people. The Seikihoutai went around spreading this. However, the government was new and short of finance. So, they ofc blamed the Seikihoutai for spreading these lies and creating unrest. They were executed.

Story-wise, this is Kenshin perhaps 2 or 3 years after Toba Fushimi (I can't find any dates regarding the Seikihoutai...) He's a wanderer who has come across this 'show.' Of course, the Captain is Sagara Sōzō. You can guess who that little boy is at the end :(

Reviews give me _life._

Stay tuned for next chapter!


	9. A Wolf amongst officers

**Chapter 9**

 **A wolf amongst officers.**

The wolf drooped, arching back his neck to take a long drag on his smoke. He hastened, sifting the cigarette through his gloved fingers, streaking out smoke to cloud his eyes. Its going to take more than this to deal with what was before him. News had come, and he'd been nothing but disgusted at the world that believed it. He took another drag, leisurely sifting the smoke out between his lips.

"Mr Fujita Goro. Are you to make us wait any longer?" And he thinned his eyes, propping the cig in his emotionless mask. He radiated cold, not bothering a glance in their direction.

"Hardly. Heh. Its nothing compared to the time I've wasted, humouring you with this little _escapade."_

"Mr Fujita. You will not disrespect us."

He puffed again, once, twice, before habitually flitting the cigarette through his fingers again, and flicking it away. Saito Hajime rolled back his tongue, and spat at the officer's feet.

" However _did_ you come to that conclusion, _Taichou_?" His voice was sandpaper against stone.

" You call me up here claiming something worth it. Ordering me around in folly. From the moment you did so, you'd wasted time I won't ever get back." Saito edged forward, the smell of smoke moving as he did.

"Just what made you think I could _dis_ respect you" he strained, " if I'd never given you my respect in the first place?" His tall, lean demeanour was almost towering over the man now, and the officer shuffled in discomfort. The wolf in his eyes looked about ready to eat him alive.

The officer sighed forcefully, gathering all his authority, " We have _ordered_ you to take this mission. And you will see it through— _Mibu_."

Saito stiffened at the title, not knowing that he knew. _Great._ But then if he really knew who he was, would he dare pull rank on him like this? A smile graced his lips, eerily mismatched with his unsmiling eyes- his stare cutting.

" The perpetrator has identified himself as Hitokiri—"

"—Battousai?" Saito sighed sharply.

" _Battousai_? You idiotic waifs honestly believe this is _Battousai's_ work?" He threw his head back, scoffing.

"Don't kid me, Officer-sir…peugh. A kid can joke better." And he swivelled around, looking the horde of policeman over, skimming each one in the eye.

"A kid has better judgement. These are not Battousai's victims."

His eyes trailed over the line of bodies beside them for the first time. "Far from it."

The officer narrowed his eyes, hostility shaking through his voice. "We have evidence. A handprint. A signature— a full confession. Not many would impose Battousai."

"Not many indeed. Only the morons."

Saito crouched before the eight corpses. It merely took one of them to know. Saito Hajime had seen much of the dead. And he had seen much of Battousai's dead. Peeling back a layer of blood-soaked rags, he narrowed his eyes, again disappointed. The wolf within his eyes jumped to the wounds with a hunger, and he could map the direction of blood spatter and the slash of the sword—clumsy, too slow, off its mark here and there. Either the killer was horrifically pathetic with a sword, or they were like men whom he knew back then. Sadists. Thrill seekers. Torturers. His smirk was gone. _They compare Battousai to this? Heh. The joke isn't even funny._

But even in his bitterness, contempt rolling off him in spades, he stayed quiet. The new-age police would never know the wolf needn't even have sniffed the bodies. From the first exclamation, he shut off, revolted. Anyone. It could have been any miserable person from the Bakumatsu. _Just not Battousai. Not him._ The vision of a boy flit through his mind, katana flashing in motion with that small, lean body, and ridiculous hair. Charging forward with a conviction, slashing his blade and slaughtering with a grace: as if killing were a dance. Eyes of amber bore out from his memories. Watching. Waiting. Like he was. _They sully him, comparing their saviour of the revolution, the paver of Meji, to this._

"Get rid of those goddamned wanted posters." He said, calmly. "This isn't Battousai."

And he would see him again, perhaps. If not in this life, in hell. Saito smirked, back turned to the cavalry.

* * *

Taichou: meaning 'Captain'

Saito doesn't give 2 fucks about your crappy Battousai imposter. But he's still gonna catch that bastard. Boy this one was fun. Like, in the manga, at least, Okubo and his subordinate could just barely control Saito. Could fit both the manga and movie universes.

Its an unspoken truth that Kenshin and Saito are bros, in their own strange way. I mean, there are ways that Saito can understand Kenshin that no one else can, and vice versa.

show presenter voice: " _till next time, on Kyoto No More..."_

-earl


	10. How a poor man paid debts

**Chapter 10**

 **How a poor man paid debts.**

A band of children stood huddled against the wall; a girl in rags stood petrified before a pair of young boys. None of them were over 11. Arm-raised, a woman with a rolling pin struck down on the oldest girl's arm, ignoring her muffled yelps.

"How many have you stolen, you little heathens. Huh? How many _more_ would you have stolen if I didn't catch you today? Should I turn you over to the police? Should I!?" She struck again, but the bruising girl banked left, catching a blow meant for the curly-haired boy whimpering behind her.

"Bastards, the lot of you. Filthy little—" She bore down on them.

And in one, deft movement, in a blur of red, the rolling pin was wedged between a pair of palms. The children were left trembling behind a dusty grey gi. The little girl gasped, eyes trailing to the katana at the stranger's side. She held the younger boys closer.

"Forgive this lowly one, Milady. But it is not very civil of you to turn your…rolling pin… on these children, that it is not." He finished calmly. "This will stop now, that it will."

The stern-faced lady scowled, twisting the wooden weapon out of his wormy grasp. "How dare you," her eyes skit to the dirt in his hair. "—beggar. These kids are thieves—thats what. They'll never learn right from wrong otherwise. I've lost countless batches of buns to them…and this is _my_ business! Get your nose _out._ "

She raised her arm again, ready to aim it past the red-haired beggar. Behind him, the children tugged on his clothes, their palms sweaty. He didn't shift a millimetre, and caught the rolling pin easily as it dragged past his right side.

"Milady. That is very uncourteous of you." His voice was low and monotonous now. With a twist of his wrist, the pin spun out of her grasp, and he hovered it before her offended eyes.

"They are merely children… _this lowly one_ will pay their debt in their place, that he will. " The lady hardened her eyes, skimming them once over his frayed clothes.

"What's a beggar going to offer me? You've money to repay forty steam buns?"

"No."

"You've something valuable to give?"

"No."

She was furious now, eyes milling between the beggar and the three pathetic children cooped up behind him.

"This lowly one will endure their punishment for them, that he will."

The beggar stepped forward, dipping his head and bowing low with the weapon outstretched in offering.

"Please forgive this lowly one on behalf of these children, Milady." He said simply. " This one said he will pay the debt. Do as you wish until you consider it paid."

The lady raised her brows, chuckling quietly to herself as if she'd just heard of the _stupidest_ thing.

"Ehe…And you won't retaliate?"

"No."

Her expression was contemplating, and she side-eyed the thieves. The lady took the rolling pin back. With a wry smile, the beggar turned to the kids.

"This lowly one is sorry, Dear Lady, and Sirs. You've been brave!" He grinned. "But you may leave now. Please don't look back. This one will be fine, that he will."

And the bruising girl drank in the beggar's bright-eyed smile, taking in the ugly cuts on his cheek. She swallowed, tugging a boy in each hand, and bolted out of the way. The boys resisted, eyes glaring towards the beggar's strange, red hair. But she tugged them away as the angry lady flung her arm forward, striking him to the floor.

When the girl came back alone, there was blood in the alleyway, and the adults were gone.

* * *

Notes

This lowly one: translation of "Sessha"

Kenshin defends some street kids.

(I originally put loaves of bread, but lol that wont work, so now its batches of buns.) Thanks!

 _Next time, on Kyoto No More..._


	11. Smuggler

Better add another **Disclaimer:** This work is in no way affiliated with the great Nobuhiro Watsuki or the Rurouni Kenshin franchise.

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

 **Smuggler.**

The afternoon wind was uproarious now, and it billowed suddenly, tousling her long hair behind her back and pulling her clothes into a flapping frenzy. The girl in the button-up kimono hurried forward against the wind, her high heeled sandals clacking on the streets—hands tucked into her sleeve. Feeling the outline of a dagger concealed inside. A package of opium in the other. Her eyes darted to and fro, the way one did when they grew accustomed to to being held at gunpoint.

The doctor travelled on, holding disease in her hand, a recipe for calamity in her head. A cough from the stalls made her flinch, and the smell of smoke made her skin writhe. The doctor hobbled on, trying to train her eyes forward. She picked out a bundle of grey in the distance, and followed it up the path. The streets were better-off here, slightly, and she furrowed her brows as she drew nearer.

The bundle of grey was a man. Dressed in a dirty, patchy gi, he slumped against the wall, a teacup laid out neatly before him. His hands were knit together, head bowed. Her lips thinned at the sight of the katana at his side. Comfortably within reach. ' _Another hapless samurai, huh? Ronin.'_ She breathed out forcefully. _'I wonder who's worse off in this Meji era. Me or this ronin.'_ She was ready to pass him—she'd seen too many beggars like him, too many men left in the dust after a lifetime of abiding the sword. Honourable brutes, and the less honourable brawlers alike. The ones not dead from the upheaval left to die at their own leisure. _So what?_ The ones she served only totted by their guns. Hoarding their riches.

But she slowed for some reason, catching a glimpse of a smile under that fraying straw hat. The doctor fumbled through her robes, clinking a few coins into the ronin's flowery teacup. Hesitating for a moment, before pressing a few notes into it as well. He'll need it more than her. She'd survive for now. And as she hurried to get away, the dirty figure rose, bowing low toward her back. "Thank you so very much, Milady. Sessha is truly humbled by such generosity, that he is. Please, this lowly one wishes Milady a safe travel, that he does ." The doctor turned back in time to see the bowed ronin, ignoring his stutter. _This lowly one?_ The only lowly one here was her. Deliverer of death to those already sick. Addicted. Still daring to call herself a doctor. And she didn't say a word as she left.

But the sun's rays came down, and for a moment, she thought she saw a tinge of _red_ under the shadow of the straw hat. _Ridiculous._ She shook her head and left, forgetting the beggar in a day.

* * *

Yes, that was Takani Megumi. She's currently under Kanryu's power. She must be pretty young here- a teenager? Cos she's 22 in the events of the manga right? (I have no idea how long she worked for Kanryu, so please excuse any inaccuracies...)

* * *

To dear Elisabpshady, sueb262 and skenshingumi- A big thank you, you guys are a huge motivation. All my love.

In other news, I've basically caught up to all my pre-written stuff for this, so I'm afraid the next pieces will have a longer wait- and I'm off holidaying mid-Dec. This fic collection will go on indefinitely though :) So, feel free to PM me prompts- need to get back into writing~ And one more thing- I'm going to try write some happier fics too, sorry about the mopey-sad nature of these omg. I seem to ever only write angst. Well.

Thank you! Till next time.


	12. Never dulled

**Chapter 12**

 **Never dulled.**

The wanderer was wandering, ambling down a cluttered street near the outskirts of a well-off city. The smell of fried dumplings and fresh dango filled his senses, and he was content—waddling through the sea of people, having to watch out for kids two heads shorter than him, for once. A bright-eyed girl burst through the people and plod head-first into his stomach.

"Ah! Gomenesai! Sir!"

"Oh, please, no matter little Miss, this one is fine, that he is." He dipped forward a little in a bow, watching the girl's face fill up with surprise as she ducked away into the crowd. _This is good._ He thought to himself.

Six years had past him by. The war in his mind was worlds away. And all it took was one, small reminder, that he lived through hell. A sudden crackle of fire lit up his senses, and he swivelled around, hand already clasped around his katana hilt. Reflexes _itching_ to draw in a second. The rurouni froze. A group of festival-goers were circled around a barrage of fire crackers, clapping, whooping loudly, and watching the toy pop. It rang in his ears. Like gunfire. And he slunk away, relieved, and yet, at the same time, disgusted.

* * *

Japanese fire crackers are called "Hanabi"

The battle of Toba Fushimi was actually mostly fought using guns, as were many battles during the war- it was the late 1800's.

Something small before I leave for holidaying. Thank you. See you next year!

-earl


	13. Fear-monger

**Chapter 13**

 **Fear-monger**

"Thank you so very much for everything, Miss Hiyo-dono" "No matter, rurouni!" He rose from his bow and turned, offering a lopsided smile as he took off. Warmness emanated from his figure.

"But rurouni-san! Don't walk alone after the sun goes down. Don't go alone. There have been whisperings. Hitokiri Battousai has taken 8 already. Be careful, please." In a deft instance, the cheeriness in his aura dissipated as sudden as a flame being blown out. Like the lingering wisps of smoke left behind, his very demeanour changed, setting a chill in the air around him.

"Hitokiri…Battousai?" The name tasted foul on his tongue. "Here?" He turned to face the kind old woman—naive enough to feed a stranger on her path. She too, was not as before; her shrivelled lips trembling; her grey eyes sinking; her body, fear-stricken. _Hitokiri Battousai._ That title, a decade on, still rang loud and clear: an entire country captivated by its cruelty. The infamous name cursed. Feared, even in Meji.

The woman knit her bony fingers together. "You're welcome to stay until morning, rurouni-san." He recoiled slightly, taken aback by her generosity. Her kindness. His audacity. A smile crept to his lips, but it was less genuine this time—sombre. He never should have stepped foot into her home, tainting where the sun graced its rays. He'd no right to speak to her: his words filthy, his presence unworthy before the old lady.

He opened his mouth, eager to flee her kindness. "No, Miss Hiyo-dono. Sessha will be fine, that he will. I have inconvenienced you, that I have." And he left, hating the way his voice turned out. Cold. Cruel. Unbeknownst to him, the old lady clapped her hands together that night, offering prayer to the gods, _"Keep that dear rurouni safe, now. Pray that Hitokiri Battousai leaves him be."_

But he ambled on in the dark, and it was like back in the unglory days; the boy with the cuts, now a man with the scars, sought the sixth ghost of his past. From Bakumatsu to Meji. Haunted by himself.

* * *

Heya, needed to put something out here already!

Basically whats happening here is, like the start of the RK story, there are other criminals going around spreading fear by using his name. Kenshin doesn't like that, like, at all. :/


End file.
